


Paranoid, Ex-Military

by illumynare



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Canon-typical language, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Cuddling, RvB Platonic Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-20 02:45:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12423474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illumynare/pseuds/illumynare
Summary: The problem with taking in a murderous ex-Freelancer is that. Well.Then you have a murderous ex-Freelancer.Leading your team.





	Paranoid, Ex-Military

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by a conversation with Zalia and Nicole, so thanks to them for letting me use their ideas. <3 Also, thanks to Taller for the beta.

The problem with taking in a murderous ex-Freelancer is that. Well. _Then you have a murderous ex-Freelancer._

Leading your team.

Tucker is so fucking dead.

He thinks that often, during the first few days after Sidewinder: _I am so fucking dead._

It had seemed like a pretty good idea, fresh off the high of defeating the Meta. Wash had helped them out, so they kinda owed him. Caboose wouldn't stop whining about wanting to keep him. Two for one.

Then they make it to an abandoned simulation base, and Tucker is so tired he doesn't care about anything, just walks straight to the nearest bunk in Blue Base, shedding pieces of armor as he goes. Flops down. Lights out.

He dreams about Church. 

They're on top of Blue Base together, just standing around and talking like always—except Tucker can't understand anything Church says. First his voice is staticky and garbled, like there's a problem in their helmet radios. Tucker fiddles with the settings, and then Church's voice comes through loud and clear, but he's just saying, "One one zero zero one zero one one zero zero one—"

"Hey,  man, use English," says Tucker.

But Church has turned into a ghost, pale and translucent. Then he's gone.

Tucker wakes up and remembers his best friend is dead.

Again. 

And this time, he probably isn't coming back. Tucker remembers how the memory unit looked lying in the snow on Sidewinder, all of the lights gone out, and _fuck,_ it's way too early in the morning to think about this.

He crawls out of bed and goes to start the coffeemaker. Except it's already chugging, and Wash is standing next to it, bolt upright, arms crossed.

His helmet is off. It's the first time Tucker's gotten a good look his face. Wash has rumpled, pale hair, dark shadows under his eyes, and chubby cheeks that would make him look huggable if he wasn't a deadly ex-Freelancer _who murdered Donut._

Church too. Kind of.

And right now? Wash looks _pissed._

Tucker stares at him and thinks, _I am so fucking dead._

But if he's going to die, he's going to do it in style. So he leans casually against the doorframe and says, "Sooo. Guess we haven't had a chance to get to know each other. Ever made it with blonde twins in a waterbed?"

Wash stares murderously back at him.

So. Fucking. Dead.

That's how it goes for the first three days. Tucker says normal human things, and Wash stares at him like he's a really disgusting bug under a microscope. Tucker would complain about it, except he's trying to stay alive.

Caboose chatters happily at Wash and calls him "Church," and gets exactly the same murder stare, except he's too dumb to know it. Somehow, he doesn't get killed either.

Aside from the moments of _oh shit he's gonna kill me_ twice a day, Blue Team 2.0 is pretty damn boring, honestly. Wash won't talk to Tucker, and Tucker's nowhere near desperate enough to talk to Caboose. So Tucker spends a lot of time at Red Base, because Grif is  actually not that bad.

Unfortunately that means spending more time around Sarge and Simmons, who suck even more than Tucker remembered. Especially Simmons, who's somehow acquired even _more_ anxiety. He won't get more than five feet from Grif, and he won't shut up about how dangerous Agent Washington is.

"I can't believe you guys decided to adopt him," Simmons mutters, pacing back and forth behind the couch where Grif and Tucker are kicking back with a six-pack of shitty beer. "He's a lunatic and he's going to murder us all in our sleep."

Tucker thinks that Simmons is probably right, but hell if he's going to admit it. "Eh, you're just jealous that Red Team still doesn't have a Freelancer."

"Damn the International Dibs Protocol," Sarge says feelingly from the corner, where he's constructing something out of an old radio and a blender. "Grif, this is all your fault. If you had called dibs as soon as we took down the Meta—"

"I WAS HANGING OFF A CLIFF," says Grif.

"No excuse for laziness!"

Grif slurps loudly from his beer. "Whatever."

On the fourth day, Tucker gets up, and yep, Wash is lurking by the coffeemaker again. He's got the top half of his armor off today, but he's still glaring at Tucker like he's planning to carve his heart out with a spoon.

Home sweet home.

But not even death can keep Tucker away from the sweet, sweet caffeine, so he approaches. Says, "Hey, you're still around," and shoves an elbow into Wash's side to get him out of the way.

Wash wheezes and doubles over.

"Oh shit don't kill me," Tucker says automatically, but Wash is still slumped over, gasping for breath, and without really thinking about it, Tucker asks, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Wash gasps, and then straightens up. "Ready for action."

They stare at each other for a moment.

"Dude," says Tucker, "the only action _I'm_ interested in is with some hot blonde chicks."

"What?" says Wash, like sex is totally a foreign concept to him.

And then the penny drops. Tucker remembers Doc saying something about Wash being nearly dead—he'd been gasping while they packed him into Church's armor—

Ever since they got to this base, he's been moving like he had a stick up his ass.

"Are you still hurting?" asks Tucker.

"I have a healing unit," says Wash, looking suspicious.

"Yeah. But does that have, like . . . painkillers?"

Wash stares at him like he's started speaking Spanish. "I'm just fine, Private Tucker."

Oh, for _fuck's_ sake. 

"Do you need morphine?" Tucker demands.

Wash stiffens, his chest puffing out—then he instantly cringes back, like the motion hurt him. "Freelancers train to function in the field without—"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP," says Tucker, and goes to raid the medicine cabinet.

He doesn't want to feel sorry for anyone who killed Donut and Church. But seriously, what is _wrong_ with Project Freelancer?

Wash doesn't want to take the morphine, but Tucker says, "Okay, this is part of the job for Blue Team Leader," and that seems to subdue him a little. He swallows the pills, glares at Tucker, and limps back to his quarters.

That afternoon, Tucker and Grif discover that they've drunk all the beer at Red Base. Simmons helpfully says, "Well, logically Blue Base would also have beer," and then blue-screens when he remembers that Blue Base also has Agent Washington.

"Dude, he's still fucked up from the Meta," says Tucker. "And now he's drugged up too. I gave him some morphine this morning."

"Maybe he's faking! Maybe Project Freelancer gave him experimental super-soldier treatments that cause him to have an uncontrollable psychotic reaction to common painkillers—"

" _Oh my god,"_ says Grif, "he's kind of badass but he's not fucking Master Chief. Have you been reading those SPARTAN conspiracy theory message boards again?"

"Fine, I'll go get some beer and bring it back over here," Tucker grumbles, and marches back to Blue Base.

He can't help feeling a little nervous, though, as he walks in the door. Simmons is a nerd and fucking stupid, but what if he's right? What if the reason Project Freelancer trained their operatives to function without painkillers is that—

And that's when Tucker sees Caboose and Wash sitting on the couch.

_Snuggling._

There's no other way to describe it. Tucker feels like he has to be hallucinating. Caboose is sitting on the couch, scrolling through something on his tablet, and Wash is cuddled up against him, face pressed into the crook of his neck.

"What," Tucker says with great feeling, "the _actual_ fuck."

Wash looks up and gives Tucker this goofy grin that make him look like he's practically a kid, despite the bits of gray in his blond hair.

Then—lagging behind as always—Caboose looks up too. "Oh! Tucker! You are back! That is good, because I have to go to the bathroom."

"Uhh—" Tucker starts, but doesn't get any farther because Caboose rockets off the couch, grabs Tucker by the arm, and shoves him down.

The moment Tucker's ass hits the cushions, Wash attaches to him like a leech—as Caboose vanishes, the traitor.

"You're really soft," Wash mutters into Tucker's shoulder.

"Dude, don't say it like that," says Tucker. The only reason he's not leaping off the couch right now and punching Wash in the face is that he still has that urge not to die.

Wash hums, a warm puff of air through Tucker's t-shirt. He's heavy, leaning his whole weight into Tucker—and _fuck,_ he's not about to kill him. In fact, Tucker suspects that right now, the murderous ex-Freelancer is completely helpless.

This is so wrong, and not just because Tucker has a totally manly reputation to maintain.

"You're really high, aren't you?" he says.

"Nope," says Wash. "I'm fine. Ready for duty. Kick ass and take names. Is the floor supposed to be moving like that?"

Right.

So apparently, just a little morphine is all it takes to turn Agent Paranoid Washington into a totally high, completely relaxed cuddle-slut. That explains why Project Freelancer trained him to function without painkillers.

"This is so fucked up," Tucker mutters.

Church is supposed to be here. Church, who's an asshole and who would never hug Tucker in a million years, and who's also a ghost. AI. Whatever. Tucker's best friend is supposed to be here, not Wash.

_Everything_ is so fucked up. Right from when Tucker joined the army, hoping for a way out of Detroit and a cool scar to impress the ladies. And, okay, hoping to defend the Earth or some shit. 

Instead, he got used as target practice in a bizarre paramilitary conspiracy, travelled to the future (maybe), got pregnant (definitely), spent several months as an ambassador to the aliens, and now he's on the run from the UNSC, in the company of an ex-con who, _oh yeah,_ killed a bunch of Tucker's friends. 

An ex-con who's also an ex-Freelancer.

And sure, Grif had said something about Wash trying to bring down Freelancer. But he was _part_ of it first. He was one of those fuckers who promised them a part in the war and then used them as target practice. Who created the Meta. Who did . . . whatever they did to Church before Blood Gulch, Tucker's still not totally clear on that. But he knows it was bad.

So Tucker shouldn't be letting Wash lean on him. 

But—

_Freelancers train to function in the field without painkillers._

Tucker's nowhere near to forgiving Wash, but he's starting to think he and his friends aren't the only ones who got chewed up and spat out by Project Freelancer.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," he sighs, but he doesn't move. 

"The ducklings are gonna save us," Wash agrees.

And he's not Church and this doesn't make any sense, but Tucker is—honestly, starting to relax a bit.

It's kind of nice, thinking that Wash isn't going to kill him. That Blue Team is going to be okay.

At least, it's nice until Red Team bursts in to save him from the murderous Freelancer.


End file.
